Adobo Criollo Sergio Antonio Ortiz Rivera

Outfits I stopped pushing salvation on inner city streets after the funeral. Maples lining the road home took me to the kimono and the baby, anniversary gifts from Tent. Rubin changed clothes as soon as we got home from Sunday school: toreror, mariachi, prime ballerina. It was difficult to keep a straight face in the middle of an argument with a little cross-dresser playing in front of you. The beginning of autumn, that’s when he started collecting the feathers. My baby, fourteen, lifeless. We found the first one outside a Mud Wrestling Bar & Grill. It had the Lords Prayer written on the barbs. Soon enough, they were coming from all over the world. He loved to collect them. Close, Tent was very close to his son. Closer than the rope he used. He couldn’t take the impact of Rubin’s passing. I needed to look in the mirror, put on the kimono, cover my arms with the red yellow leaves of the sash, and hide the teeth marks. © Sergio A. Ortiz 2008

At the Church of 80% Sincerity it was no crime to be born a delicate male, but reaching puberty while you're opening up a frog in biology class ruined your sex life for good. Games were another gray area. No such thing as “hard” contact during basket-ball practice was allowed, and it wasn't because of the balls, or the running style. So, I took ballet three nights a week, studied sincerity percentages. It was not easy. Everyone I knew hid 20% of their life at the Church of 80% Sincerity. © Sergio A. Ortiz 2008 first published in Children, Churches, and Daddies

India I did not fail to see your shroud cover my hands, like a mother greeting a son with garlands. What was this light you possessed that guided me out of the dark, wheeled my thoughts in navy blue, tendered my voice, and spiraled into a dance? The hands holding up invisible walls, carried my sail to streams untouched. Hands that fenced passions and cushioned the blows each time I fell. Chant a bhajan melody while the fingers of my right hand form a crown lotus soaring in mid air. My left hand imitates a wave caught in the vortex of fate. My eyes look away from physical forms as if all the toiling in the fields had set them on fire in celebration. Clattering kartals accompanied by humming drones, and chiming manjiras, sitars and nals, complete the circle swaying rhythms in perfection. Why do you till my eyes in your fields of saffron? © Sergio A. Ortiz 2008

Searching We are both close to fear, my brother and I, boom babies, witnesses to an age saturated with violence. Him, a virgin at twenty-five. Me, used and afraid by sixteen. I want to hug my brother tell him how much I’ve missed him. Night has not been the same without a sentinel looking out the window, searching. Thank you for understanding what it is to be a man without the bling hanging on my neck or a gun in hand. I want us to see the dawn while our faces turn to each other, and the clothes we wear burn off. © Sergio A. Ortiz 2008

Peak Oil We read about the old dying from the cold. Fifteen days later there was no food. When it happened a third time politicians got mobbed on the streets. As if law makers could keep away cardinals perched on the outstretched arms of concrete scarecrows. © Sergio A. Ortiz 2008

On the Brink Merchants of war, you hide in what you wish were called, “the Mansions of Heaven,” while a trigger is squeezed to death on the street. I have a bird that whistles, but it doesn’t stop me from crying. I heard some students were crushed for walking in each other’s dreams at a love-in. Too bad I couldn’t be there with them. I’m a dada bird on the brink of extinction, need to get away from Oxford, Harvard, Yale, and Princeton. © Sergio A. Ortiz 2008

when dawn remembers to seize your dreams jump in water even if you can't swim or wiggle your ears

I see a cloud so old it wants to sail across the moon and rain. I tend my garden: the water, marble, forgetting which runs into which. Where is Eden? Is there a hammock there? © Sergio A. Ortiz 2009

Gypsy Linda prepared for bed confident she could not receive bad news. It was Thursday, bad news was announced in dreams on Fridays, After walking over to the drawer and taking out the tied chicken legs, Linda rubbed the tattoos, stricken by the taunt of sailors, on the side of her neck for good luck. Gypsies don’t read each others palms. They understand war casualties, letter writing in the fog, black and white images that make you forget the wind. She wasn’t going to think about the fuzz on his back, think about how it spread to his buttocks. Teresa walked in the bedroom with the Acacia oil. She was so thin she was starting to look like phyllo. The señora wants me to brush her hair? Wait. Please, wash your hands. Mr. Puttock will be home in the morning, I want my hair noticeable. Look at you, skinnier by the day. Certain about not telling me who the father is? No señora, it doesn’t matter. He is an important man. He won’t care of my baby. Teresa your pulling my hair, how ...

encore the King of Pop's blazing moon dance © Sergio A. Ortiz 2009 June 25

el silencio no murmura... grita... penumbras © Sergio A. Ortiz 2009

penumbra sobre los sahuaros bosque de espinas viejas © Sergio A. Ortiz 2009

lindero coqui al otro lado del charco © Sergio A. Ortiz 2009

coqui salta el charco jibaro exilado © Sergio A. Ortiz 2009

Después de Cruzar la Calle loco con tu piel pero luego, luego te pienso mas mío mas tiempo mas silencio manantial de planetas cósmicos todos prestándole luz a mi sendero salpicando de alegrías mis estrellas rotas o tal vez la nuestras aquí estamos tu sentado en mi roca yo recostado sobre tu pensamiento a punto de comenzar a conocernos © Sergio A. Ortiz 2009

Where are those hands traitors to their trade, asleep beside another singing songs of mystic praise? I traveled through centuries on a ray of sun and knew our end in advance: You, murdered by envy, I, a dervish hidden in Turkey. Where are the hands that leaned on my shoulders to write poems?

Shady Checo Man fuiste crueldad armonizada, apego, deseo de ir hacia ti.

Me encuentro atrapado en este mundo oriental Cegado por la incapacidad de entender O recorrer los acontecimientos históricos Que me siguen trayendo al manantial Donde toda mi existencia se desdobla Para reflejarse en proyecciones humanas.

Attente Les yeux cherchent un sourire, aidez son abdomen. Les genoux se frottent le froid quand il n'est pas près, et ses mains sont armes de paix sur ma peau.

Beauté américaine Acheté moi-même quelques hauts talons croyez qu'ils semblent bons avec l'Armée du Salut Le costume je me conserve dans les toilettes pour les occasions spéciales. Damnez le droit, je le fais à la discussion directement après les gamins Arrivez à la maison du hockey. Petite femme les aime les chaussures. Mon miel, n'oubliez pas d'éteindre la lumière Quand cela vit dans le mari votre venez recueillent le bébé. Oh, et n'oubliez pas de prendre votre fusil.